Chapter 9

Present day, Gotham . . .

Oswald stood in front of his full-length mirror, but he did not see himself, did not see his bedroom reflected in the looking glass, but slowly and without awareness had slipped inside himself, his mind wandering off to the dark corners of insecurity and panic, self-doubt and sorrow.

Chewing on his lower lip was not helping.

New Year's Eve would be horrid. Oswald just knew it.

He absentmindedly scratched his waist which had been squeezed into a too-tight cummerbund—no doubt the work of sloppy tailoring, and fought to adjust it back into place, his shirt and skin in that area moist from his sweat. This displeased him. He sucked in his gut and buttoned his vest. The matching jacket lay on the bed.

Another chance to welcome in a fresh new year with all its empty promises and teeming misery. He did not notice it when he started singing "Auld Lang Syne" under his breath.

"We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne."

He sighed heavily and took out his frustration on his bow-tie, unraveling it and tying it back for the fifth time, but who's counting? Who indeed.

Auld lang syne, he mused. Days gone by.

Why does she not come to me? It was at that question that his image started to visualize before him. He took in the sight of a man who still looked youthful, but had accumulated more frown lines in between his brows, and the wrinkles around his lips gave testimony to a mouth that had spent most, if not all, of its life turned downward. There were very few laugh lines around his eyes.

Why would she come to me—look at me—a true image of his my nickname. Penguin. Fuller face, grayer hair—which he kept covered in black hair dye. An unruly tuft on top that he always had to tame with gel. Tired eyes, dark circles underneath them from too many sleepless nights. A slight waddle, the direct result of his weight. What had been merely an uneven gait caused by his damaged leg, had morphed into a dodder, his extra pounds making walking almost comical and causing him more pain.

He groaned. I am a person I thought I had left behind. I never got away. Trapped. Never free.

A new thought formed in his mind. Had she seen pictures of me in the newspapers or the TV, or maybe in one of the society magazines, and now no longer desires me? Is disgusted by me? Could that be the accursed reason she does not come? He felt certain that must be it—the images had poisoned her mind, turned her against him like Maroni had stolen loyalty from his mother.

A burst of rage traveled from his chest outward.

If so, I will kill her. All her musings of love and loyalty were empty! Were nothing! I believed her! Trusted her!

He saw his lip quiver and concentrated on making it stop, which only increased its trembling. He let out one short sob and sat down on the bed, taking his head in his hands and gulping down a few deep breaths before looking up to meet his reflection. Chubby cheeks, usually pale, were now flushed with sporadic red blotches. He narrowed his eyes.

"Never are you to entertain that absurd notion again," he told his image. The only thing she has ever done is save my life. Foolishness. I am a fool. And, if a fool I must be, it is for love's sake. For her.

Who could blame her if she was ashamed of him? He had let himself go. Had promised to be in his best form when he had her in his arms again, but over the years, he had eaten the fury and drank the angst.

Even I would not wish to return home to me. How could she?

He chastised himself and got up to pick out his cuff links. This is irrational. I am being irrational. Of course, she wants to come home to me. Indeed, it is treacherous villainy that keeps us separated, not her will. When I get to the bottom of this, those responsible will find themselves at the bottom of Gotham Harbor.

He rooted around the cuff link box—imported leather and teak wood with his initials embroidered on top, a gift from Nygma—and his eyes stopped on the ones in the shape of owls—a gold, silver, and copper mix. He tightened his mouth. They had just shown up one day. He had been tempted to toss them, but Nygma had told him to keep them, for inspiration, in case he ever started to get despondent and needed encouragement to continue his mission of tracking down Cassandra. These will add some fuel to the fire whenever you look at them, Nygma had said. And he had been right. On those particular days when the despair covered him like a water-sodden quilt and he felt like giving up, he would gather those cuff links in his hand and feel his vehemence and determination return.

Nygma had been instrumental in helping him uncover some of the mystery of the journals. Harold had been helpful as well, eagerly helpful, which set Oswald on high alert. The people who had Cassandra must be very bad people indeed if Harold was so keen to see her reunited with Oswald.

Harold had shared information regarding Haly's side business with The Court. Besides running a lucrative circus, Haly recruited and trained children who had promise—the disturbed, the lonely, the angry, the especially talented—and alerted The Court to his discoveries. Only Harold did not understand why he did it, why Haly would sacrifice these children. He had seen only kindness from the man.

Harold had not had a chance to stay with the circus long enough to discover that answer. After he had taken the blame for the fire that Cassandra had accidentally started, he was shipped off to a juvenile detention center. But, what little he knew, he enthusiastically shared with Oswald.

He had been shoveling elephant dung one early evening and had laid the tool down to take a break when Haly had entered the makeshift stable followed by a masked figure. For whatever illogical reasoning that went through his mind at that moment, Harold did not want to be discovered and remained squatted behind a canvas barrier, hoping he had not been noticed already. When they spoke, he knew he was in the clear. He only hoped that he did not sneeze from itch the stirred up hay dust was causing in his nostrils.

"Yes," said the form. It seemed to Harold the person had a slight hiss and he could not make out if it was man or woman. "Sebastian will be pleased with her progress. A courier will come for her in a few weeks. She is at the age where her permanent molars have come in, so it is time for a dental visit from one of our specialists."

Haly nodded. "Yes, when can that person be expected?"

"Before midnight."

"What about her parents?"

"Better to do it when they are all asleep. Would not want a simple dental procedure to turn into a bloodbath—well, I, of course, would not mind—welcome it even—but it would not be good for the integrity of the circus. Too many great assassins have come out of it."

Harold sneezed and the room fell silent. Oh, damn, he thought, as he heard hay start to shuffle. He employed the "drop and roll" method used to teach children how to react to being on fire, and rolled his way underneath the edge of the tent to the outside without being seen. He hid behind the crates stacked against the canvas wall. After a beat, the visitor spoke again, addressing Haly, "You have no need to worry yourself with the details. It will all be taken care of. She will have the implant before daylight breaks upon your traveling tents of happiness."

Harold heard the sneer in the visitor's voice and watched from behind the crates as the person left, maneuvering himself to not be seen. Haly escorted the figure around another tent and Harold followed, but could not hear anything they were saying, if they were speaking at all, and ran in-between the smattering of parked cars to watch the guest leave. The license plate on the grey Rolls Royce read NOCTIS.

He had relayed all that to Oswald who had repeated this information to Nygma without revealing its source. Through simple sleuthing, Oswald discovered that the car was registered to the Powers Hotel, but not under a specific name. Using this line of reasoning, he found that Orchard Hotel had a car registered to it as well with the word AETERNUM on its license plate. Latin words. Place the two together and one gets "eternal night".

But, what exactly does that mean? Oswald wondered. Eternal night. He and Nygma had brainstormed. Blackness forever? Taking down the electrical grid? (Nygma seemed to really like that idea.) Plunge Gotham into complete darkness? Literally? Figuratively? Owls are night birds, night hunters. A city under siege from predatory fowl? And, what, pray tell, did that have to do with Cassandra?

They had been in his office, sitting in silence, lost in their own thoughts when, Oswald had let out a guttural howl and threw the journal against the wall where it laid at an angle.

Ed froze. "May I get you something, Oswald?" Oswald shook his head no and stared at the journal as if it had personally offended him. He tilted his head and frowned.

"Ed, what is that?" he said, not taking his eyes from the book. Ed turned his head to look and his face lit up. "My, my. I never thought I would see one of those in my lifetime—outside of a museum or library that dealt with literary antiquities, that is."

"So you see it too. I am not imagining things?"

Ed shook his head and got up. "You are not, sir."

"Cassandra's mother was a genius," said Oswald as Ed brought him the journal and fanned out the edges—the same way it had been on the floor. It formed a picture on the side of the book.

"This is remarkable!" he continued, wishing that he had had the opportunity to meet her. "She employed a fore-edge painting technique to hide more secrets." He studied the image. "A maze?"

Ed nodded. "That's what it looks like—with a fountain. Try the top and bottom of the book." They adjusted the diary and two separate paintings were revealed, each on either side of the book. Starting at one end and fanning the pages as they went, a panoramic picture emerged, morphing into three different scenes: the first was a painting of a golden mask, the second was the maze, and the last was a glacier.

Ed leaned in and adjusted his glasses. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the last tiny painting. "I do not believe that's a glacier." Oswald frowned and looked at it again.

"Well, then, what is it?" he asked.

Ed rattled off one of his cryptic riddles.

"Sometimes I just wish you would tell me the answer instead of trying to make me guess."

"I have seen this before . . . in schematics, a blueprint—well, one. I think it's been destroyed. It is quite a ways off from being completed. It's a pity—the man who created it was once a well-respected tech researcher and securities analyst, but fell into the depths of madness," Ed laughed nervously. "The answer to my riddle is a fortress. He referred to this structure as the fortress."

"And, who is he, might I inquire?"

"His name is Eric Washington. No relationship to George," he smiled, pleased with his joke.

"Eric Washington? You mean the former CEO to Securitus, Eric Washington?" Oswald sighed and leaned back running one of his hands through his hair. "He is dead, Ed. How does this help us?"

"He has a daughter. In his will he stated that his holdings would go to her. There has been some back and forth about that in probate since she is still quite young—it's turned into a power struggle between her lawyers and those with vested interest in his company; it may not have been transferred to her yet as she is still a minor. But," pointed back to the painting. "It has not stopped progress on this project."

"You mean it is still being built? Right now? Even as we speak?" Ed nodded. "And, how, pray tell, do you know all this?" Oswald asked him.

"One learns things as a coroner. We have access to funeral homes, hospitals, the police department . . . Sometimes when a curious death occurs, I take an interest and may make an appearance at the dearly departed one's viewing or wake or whatever way the left behind choose to send them to their next destination. Hover near a grieving widow at the GCPD. Shadow the bereaved in the morgue. All these venues are wonderful places to eavesdrop." He grinned like an imp and rocked back and forth on his feet.

Oswald nodded and chuckled, biting on his lower lip. "I am duly impressed, Ed. Truly." Ed had beamed like a kindergartner who had just been given a gold star to his forehead.

Looking back, Oswald reflected that this information had helped move closer to discovering who ran the mysterious Court of Owls and how he may be able to hit them were it hurt—their wallets—for without the money, they had no hope for power. If the hotels or any one of their businesses suffered financially, it would put a kink in whatever nefarious plans they had. Oswald had found out that these companies were interrelated, keeping the money in the family, so to speak, while making money off the unsuspecting. Plus, it would get him invited to a sit down with the key players. He really wanted to meet them. Face to face. On their turf. He had his reasons.

He decided to wear the owl cuff links, thought better of it, paranoid that they might contain a tracking device and returned them to their designated square within the case, where they had lived from the first day he had received them. He chose the oval pair instead, the silver ones with a tiny rhinestone and his initials engraved. They would do for tonight.

Oswald slipped on his jacket and headed towards the aviary at the zoo where this wretched party was being held. Several women had vied for a date, eager for whatever gifts he might bestow upon them, but he just could not do it this year. Aside from maybe getting lucky tonight—although even that prospect did not thrill him—he was not in the mood for anyone's company. He did not even know why he was going to the stupid party.

Yes, he did. To stare forlornly at the tile in the aviary that Cassandra and he had painted on their honeymoon. As he stood, mournfully brushing his fingers over the smooth tile, he was accosted by the trampish hostess who had been stalking him all night—her breath smelling of caviar and beer, washed back with a shot of Dom Perignon. Of course, her shot glasses were flutes full of champagne, including one she had brought for him, but drank herself in one quick gulp. Huh. Must have slipped her mind she had just slurped down her own.

The party was awful. Just as he had suspected it would be, and now he was being pawed by a course drunk. She had the gall to grab him and plant a kiss on his mouth after the countdown. Her lips felt waxy due to the overabundance of Red Passion Puss smeared across them (and her teeth)—she had told him the name earlier followed by a wink and the show of her pink tongue as it glided over her lips.

Someone else just trying to get a leg up . . . literally. He pushed her away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while he fled to the men's restroom. He snorted without merriment when he saw himself in the mirror above the sinks. The lipstick was smeared halfway across his face. Wonderful. I look like those loons down at the Celestial Lounge. That's when someone walked in, and before he saw who had entered, he heard the distinguishable voice of Jeri, the owner of said lounge.

"That's a good look for you," she chirped. Grabbing his face and squeezing it between her fingers. He shoved her hands away.

"Stop it."

"You love it when I do that."

"I hate it when you do that."

"No, you don't. You love it."

"I do not."

"You do," she teased, hopping up on the counter. "Otherwise you wouldn't let me get away with it all the time." She tried to capture his face again, but he slapped at her fingers.

"Jeri, I'm warning you." She just laughed and kicked her legs back and forth underneath the counter. Oswald regarded her while wiping the lipstick off his face. She actually looked remarkably decent for this event, not that he did not enjoy her regular style. He did. A lot. In fact, he preferred it. It is just tonight, she actually could pass for elite royalty. "What are you doing here?"

"You mean in the men's room?" She jumped down and opened the door. There was a line outside the women's restroom. She shrugged. "I got to pee."

"But you're not 'peeing'," he said gesturing to the stalls. Really, does one have use such vulgarities? Jeri wrinkled her face at him.

"Oh, my gosh. Some people are so nitpicky!" She locked herself in a stall and Oswald could hear various unzipping and material being pulled and rearranged along with whispered swear words, some that were new to him. Oswald went to the men's door and locked it.

"What was that click?" Jeri called out from the stall.

"I locked the door. There's a lady in here. Cannot have strange fellows entering the domain."

"You're a strange fellow."

"I don't count," he said. "And, you didn't answer my question: What are you doing here?" Someone knocked on the entrance door. "One moment!" Oswald called out. More insistent thumping followed and Oswald swung the door open, holding a knife against the neck of the person on the other side. "If you value your life, you will give me five minutes," he hissed. The man nodded.

"I apologize, Mr. Penguin—I mean, Mr. Cobblepot. I'll just . . ." he pointed back over his shoulder and walked away, not finishing his sentence.

Oswald closed and relocked the door. "Better hurry, Jeri. The free champagne is running its course." He heard her relieve herself and rolled his eyes. He could never figure out how he ended up in some circumstances.

"Oh, I got an invite because of my donation," she said. Oswald eyebrows shot up.

"Your donation?" She was starting to wiggle back into whatever corset and hose she had made herself prisoner of and flushed the toilet.

"It's not as nasty in here as I thought it would be," she said as she reviewed herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure she was all tucked in. She met his eyes and slumped dramatically. "Oh, come on Mr. High-and-Mighty. Surely you don't think you the only one with money in this town, do you? My club pulls in a pretty penny too, you know."

"My apologies," said Oswald. "I only meant that I had never seen you at such events before tonight." She did not wash her hands and she noticed his grimace. It delighted her and she laughed.

"Hey, Mr. O., we are among the Gotham select. It's dirtier out there than in here." He tilted his chin down and looked up at her like a puppy. "Oh, all right!" She turned and washed her hands, holding them up for him to see when she was finished.

"Happy?"

"Immensely," he grinned.

"Yeah, so, why haven't I attended these types of events before?" She shrugged and then said softly. "I shouldn't have to tell you." Oswald understood what she meant. She was a misfit. An outsider, just trying to fit in and rebelling when she could not. She became bubbly again. "Well, these parties are a hoot, kind of fun. Not as rotten as I thought they would be. Hey, did you see the size of that chocolate fountain? I could just bathe in that, and I just might before the night is over. Want to be my date for the rest of the evening? Keep hostess hooker away from you?"

He laughed. "You saw that did you?"

"Sure did. It's why I followed you in here. I know a broken heart when I see one. I'm an expert one might say. How about I play your bodyguard? Well, that is until my dreamboat comes along. After that, you're on your own."

Oswald snickered and offered her his arm. "I would be delighted and ever grateful." She slipped her arm through his and adjusted the train on her skirt behind her.

"So you owe me a favor?" she said, exuding childlike glee.

"Don't push it," he answered as they exited the room.

"A girl's got to try."

Oswald chuckled. At least for the next hour, the company would be fun.